


Just to Make Sure - The Sequel

by addicted2hugh



Series: Just to Make Sure [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: But Mostly Smut, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Smut, Inspired by Martin Freeman's Tongue, Jealous John Watson, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, POV Sherlock Holmes, POV Third Person, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive John Watson, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-05 03:17:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17910977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addicted2hugh/pseuds/addicted2hugh
Summary: This is an unplanned sequel to Just to Make Sure. I dedicate it to two of my favourite people, Martina and Kat. <3It was inspired by Martin Freeman's legendary lip lick and all the other hot things he does with his tongue. Constantly. I mean, man, you gotta be careful. People could die. (Sherlock almost does in this fic. Of pleasure. XD)I hope you'll enjoy!





	Just to Make Sure - The Sequel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sherlockandjohn2010](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockandjohn2010/gifts), [maartiinkaa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maartiinkaa/gifts).



Sherlock Holmes is tired. The drug Irene Adler injected him with has worn off by now, but his brain is still trying to wrap itself around the fact that it can't deduce her. That he can't make sense of it all. This has never happened to him before, at least not to this extent.

It doesn't help that this morning started with a visit from his tedious brother, the sudden discovery of his phone's new personalised message alert (which, frustratingly, he can't get rid of, whatever he tries), and Mrs Hudson announcing her unsolicited opinions on both.

He has to  _think_.

As soon as it's only John and him again, he picks up his violin and goes to stand by the window and play a random, idle tune – he needs to calm down, figure it out, focus. It'll all become clear soon enough. There hasn't ever been a case he wasn't able to solve, and the mystery surrounding Irene Adler won't become the exception to the rule. He won't allow it. A little music, a little time in his mind palace, and he'll get to the bottom of it all.

"No," John says from right behind him, making him jump. He didn't hear him get up and walk over to where he's standing. "We need to talk."

Sherlock turns around.

"What?" he asks absent-mindedly.

John stares at him, his jaw set, and Sherlock comes back to his senses. It's unnerving how little he is able to read him in moments like this.

"You're not shutting me out now, Sherlock," John says lowly, his voice level, but tinged with a subtle trace of annoyance that Sherlock doesn't understand.

He's done nothing to upset him, has he? John usually lets him know if something's "a bit not good"; they've by now established a dynamic that works quite well – he tries to be more mindful of what he says and does when it comes to issues that concern their relationship, and John informs him on the occasions when he gets it wrong.

"John… Have I offended you in any way? If I have, I assure you that it was not my intention."

John snorts.

"Let's think," he says, furrowing his brow in mock contemplation. "You woke up with  _lipstick marks_  on your cheek. You had a naked woman on your lap yesterday that you can't stop thinking of now. And your phone fucking  _moans_  whenever she sends you a text, which is, I might add,  _often_."

Sherlock sighs.

"I have no idea how she managed to return the coat without either of us noticing, John. Neither do I know how she installed that sound clip on my phone – and made it permanent. That's the very simple reason why I can't stop thinking about her. She's one step ahead of me, and that's unacceptable. It baffles me that this bothers you so."

"Oh,  _does_  it!" John snaps.

That's when it dawns on Sherlock.

"John. Are you… jealous?"

He tries to keep his tone neutral instead of incredulous, but he can tell he's failed almost immediately – the moment the question leaves his mouth, John bristles at him.

" _What_  tipped you off?" he replies, each word dripping with sarcasm.

"You seem to be of the opinion that there's a deeper reason for my preoccupation with Irene Adler," Sherlock says carefully. "There isn't, John. I want to know what she's got, or what she knows, to make her such an interesting target for the Americans. That's all."

John sniffs angrily. Like every time that happens, Sherlock thinks that this really shouldn't make him look as dangerous as it does. Especially not now, with him wearing that ridiculous striped jumper that makes him look so much younger than he actually is.

"So it wasn't the riding crop she used on you?" John asks with an air of defiance. "Or the milky white,  _perfect_  tits she shoved into your face?"

This seems to be quite a stretch, even for someone as possessive as John. Sherlock feels his patience falter.

" _You're_  the expert on the topic of perfect tits, John," he answers silkily. "Do I need to remind you that I've never touched a pair in my life?"

John purses his lips, still looking chagrined, but Sherlock can see that he doesn't have a reply.

They gaze at each other for a while. John is radiating tension, but Sherlock doesn't know how to react. Why would John be jealous of a woman? He knows very well that Sherlock has never been interested in women and never will be. They've been together like this for months now; they've said  _I love you_  to each other and meant it, and Sherlock always thought that was enough.

"She kissed you while I was sleeping right next to you," John eventually grumbles, very quietly and much more softly than before. He sounds wounded, irritated.  _Raw_. "She wore your coat and came into our bedroom and then she  _kissed_  you, and I  _hate_  the thought of it. I can't stand imagining her leaving her mark on you. It makes me  _sick_."

Sherlock puts his violin down on his desk again, then turns and steps right into John's personal space. The shorter man tips his head back slightly to look at him, his dark blue eyes glinting with an intense emotion Sherlock can't deduce, and he marvels once more at the riddle that is John Watson. He'll never solve it in its entirety, but he'll always be intrigued, and he'll never stop trying.

"I love you, John. I want you. I thought that much was obvious," he tells him. "It's  _only_  you."

John smirks bitterly, but doesn't say anything.

Sherlock reaches out and cups the side of his face in his hand, traces the wrinkles around the corner of his eye with his thumb, then moves on to caress his cheekbone. John's lids flutter and his shoulders slump ever so slightly.

"I washed it off, John," Sherlock continues. "I took a shower and washed it all off."

John shrugs.

"I can still smell her everywhere. Fucking _violets_. When I enter the bedroom, I imagine her perfume still lingering in the air, even though I know it isn't real. I'm---  _furious_."

His breathing picks up; his nostrils flare. Sherlock can see his abdomen move up and down rapidly as both his hands curl into fists at his sides.

"Tell me why," he whispers, because he has an idea.

Adrenaline floods his bloodstream, eradicating his exhaustion and driving the thoughts that have been pestering him since yesterday right out of his mind. John is hurting. He needs to get it out of his system, and Sherlock knows just the way to help him forget. Even if that means that he won't solve the case as soon as he could have done.

"Because---" John breaks off and takes a deep, trembling breath before he finishes the sentence. "Because you're  _mine_."

"Yes," Sherlock sighs. "Yes, John."

He runs his fingers through the hair at the back of John's head and then takes it into a firm, but gentle grip. John gasps.

"Sher---" he starts, but Sherlock draws him in for a hard kiss that smothers the rest of his name before it can make it out from between his lips.

Shaken by the force of Sherlock's advances, John has to grab his hips to keep his balance, and Sherlock uses the momentum to pull him against his front with his free arm and holds on tight.

" _Ah_ ," John moans and closes his eyes, and Sherlock tilts his head and licks into his hot, slick mouth, his lids sliding shut as well.

They kiss deeply, John quickly getting over his initial surprise, and Sherlock almost forgets to breathe. John is fantastic with his tongue; even without sufficient comparison data he'd be prepared to claim that he's the best, most dedicated kisser in the world – he goes in with all of himself, with his whole body, each and every time, and Sherlock willingly gives himself over to it and allows himself to be plundered. His knees are already weak.

"Let's go," he mumbles against John's lips. "Let's lock the door and reclaim our bedroom, John."

John hums and bites down on Sherlock's bottom lip.

"Yeah," he pants. "Let's."

\---

They manage to rid themselves and each other of all their clothes even before they reach the bedroom, and Sherlock takes a last look at the floor and the trail of garments littering it before pushing John through the door and all but throwing him onto the bed.

John hits the mattress with a low " _Oomph!_ " and stares at him, a perplexed half-smile appearing on his face.

"Christ, you really are determined, aren't you?" he asks and shuffles upwards to get more comfortable. "Get over here, come on."

Sherlock obeys and clambers on top of him, meeting him in another long, wet kiss that soon turns sloppy and urgent and wild, just the way he likes it.

"Mmhhh," John purrs deep down in his chest and runs his nails down Sherlock's spine. "I wanna fuck you, love…"

When they first started sleeping together, Sherlock needed some time to get used to the pillow talk – not because he didn't like the way John whispered into his ear what he wanted to do to him and called him  _love_  and  _baby_  and praised his scent, his taste, his  _beautiful cock_ , but because at first he wasn't sure what was expected of him in return. It turned out that John didn't expect him to say anything at all, but was happy to do the talking for both of them.

He enjoys it immensely when John takes control - letting go and giving him the lead is an almost cathartic experience, because it's so different from what they usually do, from everyday life and work. Sherlock needs it, needs to shut off his brain and surrender from time to time, and John knows that and is willing to cater to that need.

"John," Sherlock moans around John's tongue in his mouth. Every cell in his body is aching with desire. "Yes…"

God, that  _tongue_.

John grins against his lips and grabs him around the middle, then rolls them over in one smooth, controlled movement so that he ends up on top.

"Hmmm, baby…" he mutters into his ear and pushes his nose into it to make him shiver all over. "So sweet, my love…"

Sherlock wraps his hands around his upper arms and enjoys the feeling of flexing muscles underneath soft skin, but he can't hold on for long, because soon John moves a bit further down his neck to nuzzle and kiss and run his teeth along his skin, and he has to let go of him and bury his hands in the sheet instead to ground himself.

It's so good.

John bites his nipple, then licks around it to soothe the slight sting, humming to himself like he's savouring the taste. His voice has taken on a deep, husky timbre it only ever gets when they're intimate, and Sherlock loves how it vibrates through him whenever John speaks or utters a sound of pleasure, how it crawls beneath all the tough walls he's built around himself and touches places inside of him he never even knew existed before John took him to his bed for the very first time.

"You taste like bergamot," John whispers, trailing messy, open-mouthed kisses along his side, his hip, then coming back up to tease his navel with the tip of his tongue. "Do you taste like that  _every_ where, hmmm…?"

"That's my--- shower gel..." Sherlock pants and feels stupid, because of course John knows that it's his shower gel; he  _always_  uses this shower gel, and John mocks him for spending so much money on it, so he doesn't really need to point it out, and  _oh God_ , now John's licking up the underside of his penis, deftly, the velvety surface of his tongue giving the perfect amount of friction, and then he takes him into his hot, wet mouth, sucking lightly.

_God._

A familiar sensation of synapses short-circuiting flashes through Sherlock's brain, and by now it doesn't scare him anymore. He's safe with John. It's alright to submit to him.

"John," he breathes, his eyes closing out of their own accord.

John goes down deep, then flicks the sensitive spot right under the crown with his tongue on his way up again. When he pulls away completely, Sherlock mewls involuntarily.

"Sshhh…" John whispers. "I'll take care of you."

He nibbles his way down the inside of Sherlock's left thigh, then up again until he reaches his testicles. He kisses him there as well, very gently, his palms gliding from the creases of his thighs to his knees in one long, calming stroke. Sherlock can feel every quick breath he takes brushing his sensitive skin, and it's torture and perfection at the same time.

"You're  _mine_ ," John suddenly growls, almost aggressively, and before Sherlock knows it, his legs are being pushed apart more widely and John puts his face right between his buttocks and kisses his opening as if it was his mouth.

" _Ngh!_ " Sherlock whimpers and throws back his head, his back arching, his hips bucking into the touch. "Oh!"

John grunts and digs his fingers into the backs of his thighs, kneading them possessively, and his tongue is doing filthy, glorious things now, working itself past the tight ring of muscle with small, but forceful thrusts, imitating what is going to happen soon, so absolutely shamelessly that Sherlock feels himself blush despite himself. They've done this before – what is it about John today that makes everything so,  _so_  much more intense?

"Grrrmmmm," John rumbles, and the sound throbs through Sherlock as if it was a corporeal thing, just as present as his tongue, his cock, oh  _God_ , Sherlock wants him, now,  _right_   _now_.

"I want--- your  _cock_ ," he hears himself say, his voice barely recognisable even to himself in its breathy, mindless urgency.

He's surprised at himself for spelling it out in such a blunt way, because it has never happened like this before. John moans wantonly into their connection, thus intensifying his pleasure, and Sherlock feels himself begin to leak in response. He wants to stroke himself, make it mount, make himself come, but he doesn't reach for the hot, hard length of his erection, which is resting heavily on his belly, craving to be touched. It's not time yet. He wants it all, wants John inside his body, and from the way things are developing he deduces that today could be one of  _those_  days, that something he's only ever achieved on his own might happen with John around to witness it, just like he's always wanted to – if it really is that particular day, he doesn't want to spoil it just because he's too impatient to wait.

"Sherlock," John groans and licks a long stripe up the cleft of his arse, pressing his tongue against his perineum to rub and nudge and tease, and it's not nearly hard enough, not even _close_ to precise enough, so Sherlock allows himself a low, frustrated whine and pushes himself against John's face, desperate for more contact.

John chuckles darkly, exhaling a puff of air that feels cool on Sherlock's damp skin. _Everything_ down there is damp now, slick and slippery with his own sweat and John's saliva, and the rational part of Sherlock's brain is still slightly embarrassed when he finds himself like this, completely at John's mercy and loving it, because it goes so severely against everything he is, everything he wants to be in the outside world. He's not composed now, or calm, or suave.

He's a whimpering mess, begging to be taken.

When John finally stops and moves up his body to kiss him again, he can taste himself on his lips, and it's still the most exciting thing he's ever done. John does not only want to do this to him, but he also wants him to share it, and the sheer intimacy of the act is what drives Sherlock out of his mind with arousal – every time. It feels dirty, indecent, _obscene_ , and the fact that he needs to let go, needs to trust his lover so completely to be able to enjoy it is what makes it both thrilling and terrifying. John knows that.

"You make love in your head," he likes to say and smile at him. "Let it happen. I'll always catch you. Always."

And he always does.

However, something's different today. Sherlock doesn't recognise himself, doesn't know why he's so eager or where the insistent pull he's feeling, the yearning to be one with John, comes from.

"Fuck me," he moans into their kiss, sucking John's tongue between his teeth. "Please--- fuck me."

"Oh--- _God_ , yes," John presses out. " _Sherlock._ "

John almost knocks the lamp off the bedside table in his haste to get the lube they keep in the drawer, and, like every time, Sherlock marvels at his skill of slicking up his fingers blindly because he doesn't want to stop kissing him to prepare himself.

"You want my fingers, hmmm…?" John mutters and bites Sherlock's bottom lip, pulls at it with his teeth. "Want to feel me deep inside?"

Sherlock shudders and rolls his hips to bump his hardness against John's in a clear demand for more.

" _Yes!_ "

"Mmhhhh…"

John reaches down between his legs to test the waters (finding him ready, _so_ ready) and then slips two fingers into him, breaches him with ease, all the while kissing his lips, his jaw, the side of his neck, emitting small grunts and hums as he does so.

When he finds his prostate and brushes it with his knuckles, Sherlock sobs.

"Baby," John rasps and twists his hand to make the feeling better still. "You're beautiful… _oh_ …"

"Johnnnn!" Sherlock hears himself cry out, the pressure inside of him almost too much, too bright. "Ah!"

John pushes in deep, then pulls back, only to come back again right away, in, _in_ , deeper still, and out again, and again, and _again_. He's stopped kissing him, but keeps his mouth close to his cheek, his forehead pressed against Sherlock's temple, his breath hot and moist against him.

"Fuck--- _me!_ " Sherlock all but manages to squeeze out, his voice already hoarse from panting. "John!"

"Yeah," John says lowly, right into his ear. "I love hearing you ask for it…"

"Please!"

"Yesss…"

All of a sudden, John's hand is gone and he has let go of him and sat up, but Sherlock doesn't really have time to mourn the loss, because a few seconds later he's back, getting on his knees and grabbing Sherlock's legs to manoeuvre them around his hips.

"Relax," he whispers, and for a very brief moment the frenzied haze surrounding them disappears.

Ever since the first time they did this, John has told him to relax before entering him, and Sherlock loves hearing him say it. No other man has ever been so careful with him, so gentle, even amidst the most passionate lovemaking, and no other man has ever managed to make him feel so protected and safe.

"Yes," he replies and looks up into his face, locks eyes with him, and John bites down on his lip and aligns himself, sliding only his tip inside.

_Oh._

It's wonderful and he needs more, and fast. John, however, doesn't continue, but just stares at him, holding himself in place, his thighs shaking. It must cost him an immense effort not to thrust; Sherlock can tell.

"My love," John says after an endless minute has passed them by, locked in their odd tableau.

He reaches down and strokes his hand up Sherlock's chest, along the line of his neck, and then up to his cheek. His fingers catch at his skin, painting it with their searing touch, and then John runs his thumb along his mouth, in a very obvious imitation of what Irene Adler's riding crop did to him while he was lying half-conscious on the floor in front of her.

He opens his lips and John's thumb slips between them, and he sucks at it, his gaze never leaving John's ocean irises, so dark with desire.

"Sherlock," John breathes and pushes forwards and _in_.

Sherlock groans with relief at the sensation of being filled and bites John's thumb in reflex, letting go right away when he realises what he's done.

"Sor---" he starts, but John doesn't let him finish; he just pulls his hand away and bends down to kiss him deeply, his hips rocking into him, immediately finding a rhythm of quick, shallow thrusts that hit the spot nearly every time.

Sherlock kisses back and swallows John's moans as they mingle with his own and rests his heels against the small of his back, meeting his thrusts and giving back as much as his limited range of movement allows him to. His arms come up and he wraps them around John's shoulders, one of his hands cradling the back of his neck, the other one digging into his shoulder blade for support. They're so close, so perfect together.

"Mmhh," John hums and breaks the kiss with a smacking sound to hide his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck, his hair tickling Sherlock's jaw. "Oh--- _oh._ "

He goes harder, hips pumping, broken groans bubbling from his throat into Sherlock's sweat-slick skin, and Sherlock cants his hips to make the most of the way John's abdomen, taut with the strain of thrusting, moves against the underside of his cock, faster and faster, and he knows it's about to happen, any second now, any second---

" _John_ ," he gasps.

And then he comes. And comes. And _comes_.

It's so intense that he feels like he's being ripped apart, like it's tearing right through his middle, leaving him open and raw, and the liquid heat of his seed might as well be blood, might as well be his _life_ , pulsing out of him and into the space between them, his gift to John, who's responsible for all the pleasure taking his breath away.

"God," John pants and just keeps going, working against the resistance of Sherlock's body clenching down around him in the throes of the aftershocks, and when the head of his cock, already engorged in preparation for the final blow, presses into his prostate once more, Sherlock feels it wash over him again.

He barks out a hoarse shout that turns into a sobbing moan and climaxes again, spilling yet another streak of come against John's skin, and John shudders violently, his muffled grunts of exhaustion undulating through Sherlock and surging through the roaring of his own blood in his ears.

"Fuck me; fuck me---" he hears himself whisper, and he can't control his voice; it just bubbles out of him, like an involuntary mantra.

He knows it can happen again, if John just keeps doing this, just like that, right _there_ \---

"Fuck!"

John cries out and thrusts deeply, once, twice, and Sherlock knows that rhythm and braces himself for the impact of the third thrust, which is always the most forceful one.

Finally it comes, and he meets it with all the strength he's got left, and then John is there as well, his release shooting out of him and into Sherlock's body, hot, so hot against his inner walls, and John fucks him through his orgasm, going deep, snapping his hips against his arse in time with the waves running through him, and it's enough, just enough to make it happen one last time.

When it takes him, it does so much more slowly, the sensation less piercing and more like a dull, burning throb, but he knows John can feel it go through him, can feel him convulse around his shaft, and he's scared that he'll faint, because he just can't take anything more, and then John's arms are there, making a cage around him, protecting him, and John's lips, murmuring incomprehensible endearments into his ear.

John stops moving.

They lie still, tangled up in each other, filling their lungs with large gulps of air that aren't enough to quench their thirst for oxygen, eyes closed, hearts hammering in unison against each other through multiple layers of flesh and bone.

Silence, only broken by the sound of breathing.

Damp sheets clinging to their skin, the scent of bodies, of sex filling the air.

Velvety darkness behind heavy lids.

John doesn't stir for several minutes, and Sherlock knows he wants to give him time to calm down and loves him for it.

"Can I?" John eventually asks, his voice low and rumbling.

Sherlock nods, his chin bumping against the side of John's head.

"Yes," he croaks.

He can't speak. His throat is sore and he wonders whether he's screamed, but he can't remember.

John tenses and then pushes himself up, first onto his elbows, then onto his hands, and then he slowly pulls out of Sherlock and sits up, wincing as he stretches his back.

"Fuck," he says, looking at Sherlock with a hint of amazement in his eyes. "I can't believe that just happened."

Sherlock raises his head and smiles weakly. Everything feels slow and stiff, even the corners of his mouth. It's still early in the morning, but all he wants is John cuddled up against his back and some sleep.

"Told you it would happen one day," he wheezes, not even ashamed of his disobedient voice.

John laughs, lowly and as if to himself.

"I'll clean you up. Stay there," he then says and gets up to go to the bathroom and get a flannel.

Sherlock sinks back into his pillow with a sigh.

His mind is blank.

He's not going to go anywhere.

\---

When they wake up from their unplanned nap and wander into the kitchen, naked underneath their dressing gowns and desperate for a hot, honeyed drink to soothe their dry throats, they find a note propped up against the tea pot. It smells faintly of violets.

It says: "Kudos, Dr Watson."

Nothing else.

Sherlock's pulse accelerates, a mixture of apprehension and curious expectation filling his insides.

_What is John going to do?_

_What is this woman playing at? How did she get in - again? He needs to know!_

_John?_

He waits with bated breath.

John rolls his eyes.

"Go on off to your mind palace, then," he says. "I'll make tea."

Sherlock exhales in relief.

"I love you, John," he says, very seriously, and kisses him on the lips.

John just grins.


End file.
